


Happily Ever After

by keire_ke



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Crack, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-13
Updated: 2013-01-09
Packaged: 2017-11-16 06:16:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/536403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keire_ke/pseuds/keire_ke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erik Lehnsherr the Disney Princess, everybody - a series of pictures with ficlets.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tangled

**Author's Note:**

> Available in higher resolution on [my Tumblr](http://keire-ke.tumblr.com/), tagged, appropriately, as "erik is a disney princess".
> 
> Spur-of-the-moment, unbetaed ficlets to accompany the images. :D

“Who’s that?” Erik yelled, pointing at an assembly of pointy swords, all of which had men attached to the less pointy ends, all of whom were pointed in their direction, and all of whom were glowering.

“Well, it would probably be helpful, for the foreseeable future, to assume that any person we encounter wants me dead.”

“Why?”

“Is this the time you want to have the conversation?” Charles asked, as a handful of rocks crumbled from beneath his shoe to hit the bottom of the shaft. Then he spoke again, this time addressing the multitudes – to be fair it was only ten men, but Erik had spent all of his life believing two was a crowd – with his hands held up in a placating gesture. “Gentlemen, I’d like to draw attention to the fact that I am, in fact, unarmed. There will be considerable fuss, but given that I have no actual weapons, I can in all confidence say any attack on my person can and will make the use of force necessary, surely you understand that?”

“Quiet!” barked the man with the shiniest feather in his cap. “We have warrants for your arrest; your mind-games will not help you.”

Charles blinked his pretty wide eyes at that and took a step back. “I don’t particularly want trouble,” he started saying, still holding his hands out, as though he could stop the swords that way. Idiot.

“Hold tight,” Erik muttered to Ferret, held out his hand and pulled, until the steel slide opposite groaned and unfolded, bridging the cliff segment by segment. He grabbed Charles by the collar and… Alright, in retrospect he shouldn’t have left figuring out how to fly on debris until his life depended on it. Still, the landing in the river was very nearly painless and therefore a success.

“What the hell was that?” Charles asked, gasping for breath. His hands were fisted in the grass as though his life depended on staying put, right there on the riverbank, not moving, blessed solid ground, holding him in place, blessed be the gravity that kept him there.

“What?” Erik asked, because he knew his mind, and this was not how it sounded.

“Oh.” Charles buried his face in the soft green grass. “Sorry. I’m a telepath and I don’t like heights. Or falling. Sorry. Really. Won’t happen again.”

“I don’t mind,” Erik said, getting to his feet. “It’s kind of good, to know someone else is there.” Ferret had dug its claws into his tunic deep enough to reach skin, but it was still with him, so Erik didn’t mind that either. “Get up,” he told Charles. “I’m getting to that castle tonight.”


	2. Beauty and the Beast

“You are right to fear,” said the creature, lowering its voice to a murmur so primal Erik felt his intestines trying to crawl out his nostrils and away. Curse his stupidity, curse his sense of adventure! He crawls away on his elbows and his shoulder blades, but the thing follows, unhurried. It has hooves, Erik notes, and they are in the middle of a fucking castle, full of metal. He is lying on a fucking grate and normally his policy is to slam menacing creatures in the face with a metal grate before they can advance, but this time his mind is a blank; the creature is still advancing, and he cannot feel the shape of the grate with his mind.

“What the hell are you?” he manages to stutter out, thank you oh so much, teeth, you useless bony protrusions. What he wouldn't give for a set of fangs right about fucking now.

The creature stops less than a yard away, towering over him, though Erik knows it’s shorter than he – no kidding, its horns were level with his eyes. It smiles in the shadows and either Erik is going crazy, or some magic is making it bigger than it actually is. It must be magic, because the shadows crawl over its shoulders, swallowing up everything which could provide perspective. “What I am, my friend, is a telepath,” it says, and fuck if Erik doesn't go rigid with fright right then and there. The hooves and the horns and the frankly unreal blue of its eyes, the like of which only the Gifted could possibly have, throw all of that at his hapless head and he wouldn't even blink. Hell, he’d take the thing out for drinks. A telepath, though? They are the stuff nightmares are made of.

Well, the cowering, rational part of him supplies, though it tries to crawl out through his ears and slip out of the castle through the grate, that explains a lot. I saw it move and it’s shorter than I am, and hardly threatening. It’s doing things to me. It’s fucking with my mind.

It’s fucking with my fucking mind! Erik thinks, and uses the wall he just hit his head with to get onto his feet, provided he still has feet and that is, in fact, a wall. He can’t be sure of a damn thing no more.


	3. Tin Soldier

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is a whee-bit different. Possibly because technically the ballerina from _The Steadfast Tin Soldier_ is not exactly a Disney Princess, nor is hers a movie.

Kurt, for reasons best known to Kurt, loved all Disney Princesses, but there was a special part of his heart reserved solely for the porcelain ballerina from _Fantasia 2000_ and her tin soldier. Raven, being a fantastic mother who would die before she subjected her child to the appropriate-gender-fancies mindfuck, no matter Azazel’s opinion, said nothing but smiled wider when he emerged from the attic one evening with a fashion victim of a porcelain ballet dancer and a fancy tin soldier, who was missing half a leg. There might have been a set, she recalled, a very old one, of which the soldier was part, designed to crush children’s souls. 

She hadn’t yet told Kurt about the original tale, nor was she planning to. Mr Andersen was a sick fuck, best kept away from little kids, in her view.

She also carefully refrained from mentioning that the dancer, painted, no doubt, by the League of Blind Painters, was a guy. Kurt was happy with his find – no, scratch that, Kurt was ecstatic with his find. He even added a jack-in-the-box to the mix, a toy which was probably the handiwork of Satan himself. Raven was generally undisturbed by clowns, dolls and other misaimed toys, but this thing was a creature straight from the Twilight Zone. The only reason she hadn’t carted poor Kurt to counselling yet was that he obviously thought so too, as he wouldn’t sleep unless the box containing the Satan!Jack was in a drawer.

For the longest time (shut up, six months is a long time when there is a six-year-old in the mix) everything was fine. Then Charles returned from Afghanistan, missing half his left leg and most of his mind. Then again, he went in the first place, so maybe it was a joyful reunion for them both, mind and man, back on home soil. Regardless, Kurt quickly learned to worship him again. Then, a few months after that, Raven threw a small party, just for close friends and Erik, Kurt’s ballet teacher, whom she planned on shagging that night.

Suffice to say that, by the time the evening was done, Kurt had tangible proof Disney was on to something, and Raven… well, Raven had fun all by herself. Most importantly Charles was smiling at breakfast, and when the phone rang when they were washing up it wasn’t for Raven.


	4. Sleeping Beauty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Huh, you'd think that with the gloominess of the picture the story would be dark and sad. You'd be wrong.

Once upon a time there was a geopolitical unit, or two, governed by people on whom the honour (and burden, it had to be said) was bestowed by divine laws. There were no precise geographical or societal divisions, so since there were two monarchs (as telling one to cease and desist would have been unwise), the common man declared his allegiance to one or the other and lived his or her life content with their choice and the occasional, inevitable, bar fight about whose monarch was better. To save on precious bar-fighting time (and life and teeth of those happy to remain without a public allegiance), it was decreed that the supporters of solving political disputes via bar-fights wore, depending on their option, blue or red (occasionally purple, if they were feeling adventurous).

The monarchs, for their part, oozed common sense and distaste for war, so any bar-fight that failed to remained confined to any given bar saw its participants arrested, brought before a judge and more often than not executed. This was felt throughout the two kingdoms as harsh, but ultimately fair, as no one in particular wanted to deal with mud and lice that war inevitably brought, not since the Great Lice Infestation of Thirteen Summers Ago. People still shuddered and dived into the river or any other body of water at the reminder, so the King (who ruled the part of the country which preferred the blue of the skies) and the Queen (who ruled the people who preferred red and purple), held monthly meetings over tea, to discuss the political climate and play a game of pachisi.

It happened one day that the wife of the King bore a son. It surprised absolutely no one, as the day followed nine months of frequent sickness and moving around with difficulty, and immediately prior a week of friskiness (this was noted, as neither King nor his consort were all that frisky). The birth was seen as a joyous occasion, despite the fact that the couple already had a child and heir: the nine-year-old Princess Raven, so called because of her rosy cheeks and golden hair. The consort picked the name moments after the Princess was born, delighting herself with the paradoxical naming to ignore the less glamorous aspects of childbearing, and wouldn’t listen to reason later on, explaining to whoever complained that she was second in command and therefore expected her very sensible wishes to be respected, and Raven was a perfectly sound name for a girl. The King, being the only person higher in command, might have giggled a little, but as he loved his wife, he backed her up with all the authority he had (which was a whole damn lot). Thus the golden Princess shared a name with dark foreboding birds, and everyone was happy as could be, excepting the Princess, who was way happier. 

So, the Prince was born and the country rejoiced. There were flags and celebrations and what not, because while the wife of the King was more a manager of motherhood than a mother, she knew that babies might yet grow to be interesting people, therefore the birth was to be celebrated. Shortly after Sharon (that was the King’s wife’s given name) was well enough to rise from the bed – and let it be said, she took her time – a grand ball was planned and the Queen with her husband were invited, along with their young son. 

As was custom in such situations, the invites to all the kind fairy folk was also extended, even though it had been years since the fairies deigned to interact with mortals. They weren’t around for the birth of the Queen’s son, save for the one fairy which showed up late, drunk, and gifted the young Prince with a bottle of exotic wine, a blunt dagger and a matching corkscrew. Not many people complained, certainly not the Queen, remembering the unfortunate Princess, a few centuries ago, who had been gifted with the gift of song, and hadn’t been able to speak without a catching a tune. A Silent Age followed; the Princess became a Queen, and the Queen burned all lutes and flutes and harps, and brought death and suffering to all musicians, singers, bards, songstress and even the occasional unlucky poet. The age only ended after her trusted lieutenant stabbed her in the throat with a cane pipe, to prevent further music-related bloodshed. The lieutenant went on to become Queen and began a dynasty of which the current Queen was a proud member, and whose proud tradition of level-headed monarchy she intended to cultivate in her own progeny.

On the lovely, sunny day that the little Prince’s christening party was to be held, the son of the Queen woke up fussy. He refused to eat his oatmeal, picking out the raisins instead, and only drunk the juice, but not milk.

“Erik, dear,” the Queen said. “Drink your milk.”

“No,” he said, folding his chubby arms over his chubby chest. Almost everything about him was chubby at that point in time, which was perfectly normal for a healthy two-year old. 

“You need to drink your milk if you want to grow up strong,” the Queen said patiently.

“No!” Erik proclaimed with much glee. “No. Noooo.”

It was already late, so the Queen sighed and handed the boy to her husband. The journey between the two castles was short, but she still needed to get ready, as she wanted to look her best when welcoming the new prince into the world. And so Queen Edie put her best dress on, and let me tell you, that was one fabulous dress: there were tasteful sparkles and delicate fabrics adorning her slim figure, enough to suggest wealth and a momentous occasion, but still tasteful enough for the Queen to feel very comfortable indeed. She seated herself in her carriage, with the royal purple skirts arranged on the entire seat, while the consort and her beloved husband cuddled little Prince Erik on his lap. Luckily for the state of the outfits of the royal couple and the carriage itself, the Prince fell asleep soon enough, lulled by the rocking motions, so, by the time the carriage stopped by the brightly lit gates to the castle, both the carriage and the Queen’s outfit were in perfect condition.

The party was utterly wonderful and of course the Queen was the first to be allowed to see the royal baby.

“Oh, Sharon,” she said, leaning over the crib. “He’s absolutely lovely.”

He was. Charles – that was the name of the new prince, chosen by his father, the King, as per his and his consort’s agreement following Raven’s naming – was small, but full of energy. His eyes, the prettiest blue Edie had ever seen and she had watched the sky numerous times, were glowing with curiosity and good humour. His little fists flailed all over the place, with the lack coordination expected of an infant, hitting the embroidered sheets and laughing as though it was the greatest thing to have ever happened to him. He smiled brightly when Edie leaned over him and started grabbing at her dark hair. “Jacob, come look at the little prince. Isn’t he darling?”

Little Charles chose that moment to start suckling on his toe, despite the fact that there was a sheet and probably socks in the way. He looked impossibly pleased with himself when the wet patches started showing up on the pale fabric, and showed them off to anyone watching, as though he sensed the trick only had merit whilst his infant adorability lasted. Queen Edie thought, smiling broadly, that this little minx was going to have all the court wrapped around his little finger when he was grown.

“Baby,” Erik said. Queen Edie started, and looked down to find Erik hanging onto the edge of the crib with the Princess holding him up. “Baby!” His hand delved into the crib, catching the flailing palm of the child.

“He’s my brother,” the Princess said, adjusting her grip. “His name is Charles.”

“Chars,” Erik repeated, shaking the baby’s hand, to the latter’s delighted gurgles.

“Charles!” the Princess said.

“Chars!”

“Charles!” The Princess had begun to shake with anger, too close to dropping Prince Erik, so her mother stepped in.

“Settle down, Raven, he’s too young to say it properly yet.”

“But it’s Charles, not Chars!” the Princess said, whining only a little and under her breath, because good princesses did not whine overmuch, and anyway Erik was not that light and she had to focus on holding him up.

At about this moment, when the royal families were busy figuring out how to get the little Prince to let go of the even littler Prince, there was a gradual change in the light, until finally all fire in the great hall has been extinguished, which had all the royals leaping to their feet and striking very royal poses around the crib.

“Delightful party,” said the newcomer, striking fear into the hearts of everyone present, because everyone instantly recognised the menacing helmet and the even more menacing visage it concealed. The visitor raised a hand and the fires sprung back up, red instead of orange, casting the hall into an eerie ambience. “A little bird told me of a new little prince. I of course hastened to visit, because it is so delightful when a new little prince is born.”

_Well, this is awkward_ , the King thought, at once startled and amused, to find the fairy staring at the Prince Erik. “Would you care for some refreshments?” he asked, indicating the laid out table immediately to the right. It paid to be polite to guests, especially guests who wielded dangerous magic.

If he had the slightest inkling what he caused, by drawing the attention to the table of exquisitely coloured food, he would probably be less eager to exercise politeness, despite his natural inclination.


End file.
